Happy Valentine’s Day!

Happy Valentine’s Day, everyone!

I thought I’d share with you my favourite love poem and my favourite romantic quote. 

i carry your heart with (i carry it in my heart) is such a beautiful, romantic poem.   It encompasses the passion and completeness of true love. I absolutely love the sentiments it portrays.

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)by e.e.cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

                                                      i fear

no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want

no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)


Pride and Prejudice quote

My favourite romantic quote has to be from the delectable Mr Darcy, as he declares his undying love for Elizabeth Bennet. Beautiful words written by Jane Austen 

“”In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

What love poems or quotes strike you as being the most romantic? Please share in the comments.


Prosecco Night!

Friday night is Prosecco night for me so with that in mind, I thought I’d seek out a couple of suitable poems to get me in the mood for the bubbles:

A Drinking Song by W.B. Yeats

Wine comes in at the mouth

And love comes in at the eye;

That’s all we know for truth 

Before we grow old and die.

I lift the glass to my mouth,

I look at you, and sigh.

The Horse and Mule by Anonymous

The horse and mule live thirty years

And nothing know if wines and beers;

The goat and sheep at twenty die

And never taste of Scotch or Rye;

The cow drinks water by the ton 

And at eighteen is mostly done;

The dog at fifteen cashes in

And without the aid of rum or gin;

The cat in milk and water soaks

And then in twelve short years it croaks;

The modest, sober, bone-dry hen

Lays eggs for nogs, then dies at ten.

The sinless live and early die.

But sinful, ginful, rum-soaked men –

Survive for three-score years and ten!

And some of us…though mighty few

Stay pickled ’til we’re ninety-two.

Drinking Song by Roger McGough

Drink wine

Think romance

You’re a lover

Feel fine

Sing and dance

Fall over.
Cheers!! Lisa x

Time to smile!


Despite the lovely Easter break, this week has been a particularly busy week so far. Never has one of my Dad’s favourite phrases “met myself coming back” been more appropriate than it has been this week! So, with this in mind, I was thinking about funny poems and poems that would make me smile with no analysis necessary and there was only one poet that was guaranteed to have the desired effect – Pam Ayres! My better half finds it highly amusing that I like Pam Ayres’ poems as he says that it reminds him of his late mum, who apparently was a fan. I’m not bothered, though. Her poems will always amuse me and are nice, easy reading after a busy day at work. So, for anyone who wants a smile, here are some of Pam Ayres poems to brighten your evening:

‘An Ode to Fifty Shades of Grey’

The missus bought a Paperback
down Shepton, Saturday,
I had a look in her bag;
…T’was “Fifty Shades of Grey”.

Well I just left her to it,
…At ten I went to bed.
An hour later she appeared;
The sight filled me with dread…

In her left hand she held a rope;
And in her right a whip!
She threw them down on the floor,
And then began to strip.

Well fifty years or so ago;
I might have had a peek;
But Mabel hasn’t weathered well;
She’s eighty four next week.

Watching Mabel bump and grind;
Could not have been much grimmer.
Things then went from bad to worse;
She toppled off her Zimmer!

She struggled up upon her feet;
A couple minutes later;
She put her teeth back in and said…
I must dominate her!!

Now if you knew our Mabel,
You’d see just why I spluttered,
I’d spent two months in traction
For the last complaint I’d muttered.

She stood there nude, naked like;
Bent forward just a bit ….
I thought oh well, what the hell,
and stood on her left tit!

Mabel screamed, her teeth shot out;
My god what had I done!?
She moaned and groaned then shouted out:
“Step on the other one!”

Well readers, I can’t tell no more;
About what occurred that day.
Suffice to say my jet black hair,
Turned fifty shades of Grey.


Do You Think Bruce Springsteen Would Fancy Me?
Do you think Bruce Springsteen would fancy me?
I know I’ve just turned forty –three,
And one eye’s gone at a funny angle,
And I have to wear this copper bangle,
As I’ve got arthritis in this left knee,
But d’you think Bruce Springsteen would fancy me?

He might not like an older bird,
Someone not of the common herd,
Old and inhibition free,
Well he need look no further than me,
I’ve lost the looks that I once had,
But then perhaps his eyesight’s bad,
My skin’s quite good, and me teeth – fantastic!
Crafted from the finest plastic,
So next weekend at the NEC,
Do you think Bruce Springsteen would fancy me?

He might like to dance with me,
If I keep the weight off me gammy knee,
But there again, me kneecaps click,
Still, I needn’t take me walking stick.
No, I’d be like a magnet to him,
The sight of me would go straight through him,
One boss eye and me hair gone grey,
Singing ‘Born in the USA’.

Course, Bruce is used to admiration,
He’s idolised in every nation,
Cheered and clapped in every state,
Me? I’m clapped at half past eight.

Me husband says I must be mad,
And didn’t I know Bruce Springsteen had
Teenage bimbos wall to wall,
Young and slim and brown and tall,
They can dance and stay up late,
Their knees don’t click and their eyes go straight,
He says Bruce wants rock and rhythm,
Not some old bird’s rheumatism.

But I don’t care, I know I’m right,
At the NEC next Friday night,
Though there might be thousands there,
Our eyes will meet in a thrilling stare,
I’ll do me slow seductive grin,
I hope to God me teeth stay in,
And in that flash of recognition,
Bruce and I will have … ignition,

Draw the veil on he and I,
Alone against the starlit sky,
The billows pound upon the shore,
And me clicking knee will be heard… no more.

The Neglected Wife’s Valentine

Won’t someone send me a Valentine to make my husband jealous?
Something big and gaudy, altogether over-zealous,
Write upon it ‘Pam, my heart stands still when you walk past…’
And when my husband sees it, he might notice me at last.

Oh write me something torrid, like ‘I’m burning with desire!
Meet me in Mustique before me underclothes catch fire!’
My husband will be staggered, he will read it like a book,
And think ‘Well, someone fancies her, I’ll have another look!’

Go on, write me something saucy, so my husband will be miffed,
Like ‘You won’t need your pyjamas, if you kind of… get my drift.’
I’ll leave it on the mantelpiece and when he rushes through,
He’ll read it and then next year he might think to send one too.

On Comparing my Husband to Robbie Burns

Oh oft I think of Robbie Burns,
Striding through the heather,
All manly clad in tartan plaid
To spurn the Highland weather,
O’er loch and glen, that man of men,

His black eyes all a-flashing
Could any heart not leap, and start,
Or fail to find him dashing?
Oh oft I think of Robbie Burns,
His dirk thrust in his gaiters,
And then I think of you dear,
And go home and peel the taters.


Oh No, I Got a Cold
I am sitting on the sofa
By the fire and staying in,
Me head is free of comfort
And me nose is free of skin.
Me friends have run for cover,
They have left me pale and sick
With me pockets full of tissues
And me nostrils full of Vick.

That bloke in the telly adverts,
He’s supposed to have a cold.
He has a swig of whatnot
And he drops off, good as gold,
His face like snowing harvest
Slips into sweet repose,
Well, I bet this tortured breathing
Never whistled down his nose.

I burnt me bit of dinner
‘Cause I’ve lost me sense of smell,
But then, I couldn’t taste it,
So that worked out very well.
I’d buy some, down the cafe
But I know that at the till
A voice from work will softly say,
‘I thought that you were ill.’

So I’m wrapped up in a blanket
With me feet upon a stool,
I’ve watched the telly programmes
And the kids come home from school.
But what I haven’t watched for
Is any sympathy,
‘Cause all you ever get is:
‘Oh no, keep away from me!’

Medicinal discovery,
It moves in mighty leaps,
It leapt straight past the common cold
And gave it us for keeps.
I’m not a fussy woman,
There’s no malice in me eye,
But I wish that they could cure
the common cold. That’s all. Goodbye.

Once I was a Looker and so was my Spouse

Once I was a looker and so was my spouse
I recall when we first came to live in this house
He was young, optimistic and fresh in the face
With never the twang of a hernia brace.

He said he would die if he could not be mine
He wooed me with words more addictive than wine
The monastery beckoned, he wanted no other
But now he troops in and he says ‘Ulloo Mother’.

He’d bound through the door with a laugh and a slap
And I used to think ‘My, there’s a handsome young chap
Thank Heavens I’m wed to a red-blooded man’
But now I get pecks like you’d give your old Gran.

He used to take pains with the look of his hair
The top London salons, they all knew him there
No end ever split and no high standard slid
Now he goes round to George who’ll oblige for a quid.

But when he first courted me, wasn’t I proud
His gay repartee had me laughing out loud
But now he reclines in his jersey and socks
And in my direction grunts ‘What’s on the box?’

I used to look on as he walked down the street
A picture of style from his head to his feet
But now there’s a cap where the tresses have thinned
And faded old trousers that flap in the wind.

Mind I’m not blameless, I know very well
That the strain of maternity’s starting to tell
I do what I can but there’s one thing for sure
The mirror is no friend of mine anymore.

He used to admire my refinement and poise
I’d turn up my nose at a smell or a noise
But now when I’m shouting he ducks with the rest
As I go haring past with a po and a vest.

Oh yes he admired the cut of my jib
And wasn’t I thin? You could see every rib
But now in the chrome at the top of the cooker
I see many things, but I don’t see a looker.


Well Mother, did I make a fool of myself,
Last night on the bathroom floor,
I’m so out of shape so I put on the tape
That I sent to the TV for,
Well on came the voice of the expert,
With advice to be careful and slow,
But I thought I knew best, I flung off me vest,
And I thought ‘Right-O Mother’, let’s go!’

I bought my John McEnroe trainers,
My how expensive they’ve grown,
But the thing with this pair, is if I’m not there,
They can run round the block on their own,
I did buy my husband some Reeboks,
I’m afraid they’re too high-tech for me,
You pump up the slack, flames shoot out the back,
And you slow down this side of Dundee.

Then I did bicycling exercises,
By Golly, I gave it what for,
Flat on me back with me knees going ‘crack’,
As the draught whistled under the door,
I borrowed your leotard Mother,
The one that enhances me charms,
Thanks very much but it went at the crutch
When I started rotating me arms.

I bought my dear husband a tracksuit,
He said terry towelling is best,
With a curl of his lip, he did up the zip,
And took all the hair off his chest,
And I bought him an exercise cycle,
The price would have made a man wince,
He never got off for a fortnight,
And he’s never been on the thing since!

We thought we might go on a fun run,
We went with a very nice friend,
He’d not run before and he won’t any more,
No, they stretchered him off in the end.
I have had a dabble at tennis,
I jog now and then and I swim,
And I’ve just met this yoga instructor…
I’m off for a dabble with him!


Hope you are smiling!!! 🙂

My Chocolate Fix…

This week is my final week of my Dechox and I have to admit, I’ve been more tempted to have a sneaky nibble on any kind of chocolate flavoured item than I have since I started this on the 1st March! So, instead of giving in to temptation, I thought I’d share this fantastic poem by Michael Rosen to feed my cravings. I’ve loved this poem for many years. No heavy analysis, just pure unadulterated chocolate pleasure! Enjoy!!

Chocolate Cake (courtesy of

I love chocolate cake. 
And when I was a boy 
I loved it even more. 

Sometimes we used to have it for tea 
and Mum used to say, 
‘If there’s any left over 
you can have it to take to school 
tomorrow to have at playtime.’ 
And the next day I would take it to school 
wrapped up in tin foil 
open it up at playtime 
and sit in the corner of the playground 
eating it, 
you know how the icing on top 
is all shiny and it cracks as you 
bite into it, 
and there’s that other kind of icing in 
the middle 
and it sticks to your hands and you 
can lick your fingers 
and lick your lips 
oh it’s lovely. 

once we had this chocolate cake for tea 
and later I went to bed 
but while I was in bed 
I found myself waking up 
licking my lips 
and smiling. 
I woke up proper. 
‘The chocolate cake.’ 
It was the first thing 
1 thought of. 

I could almost see it 
so I thought, 
what if I go downstairs 
and have a little nibble, yeah? 

It was all dark 
everyone was in bed 
so it must have been really late 
but I got out of bed, 
crept out of the door 

there’s always a creaky floorboard, isn’t there?

Past Mum and Dad’s room, 
careful not to tread on bits of broken toys 
or bits of Lego 
you know what it’s like treading on Lego 
with your bare feet, 


into the kitchen 
open the cupboard 
and there it is 
all shining. 

So I take it out of the cupboard 
put it on the table 
and I see that 
there’s a few crumbs lying about on the plate, 
so I lick my finger and run my finger all over the crumbs 
scooping them up 
and put them into my mouth. 



I look again 
and on one side where it’s been cut, 
it’s all crumbly. 

So I take a knife 
I think I’ll just tidy that up a bit, 
cut off the crumbly bits 
scoop them all up 
and into the mouth 

oooooommm mmmm 

Look at the cake again. 

That looks a bit funny now, 
one side doesn’t match the other 
I’ll just even it up a bit, eh? 

Take the knife 
and slice. 
This time the knife makes a little cracky noise 
as it goes through that hard icing on top. 

A whole slice this time, 

into the mouth. 

Oh the icing on top 
and the icing in the middle 
ohhhhhh oooo mmmmmm. 

But now 
I can’t stop myself 
Knife – 
1 just take any old slice at it 
and I’ve got this great big chunk 
and I’m cramming it in 
what a greedy pig 
but it’s so nice, 

and there’s another 
and another and I’m squealing and I’m smacking my lips 
and I’m stuffing myself with it 
before I know 
I’ve eaten the lot. 
The whole lot. 

I look at the plate. 
It’s all gone. 

Oh no 
they’re bound to notice, aren’t they, 
a whole chocolate cake doesn’t just disappear 
does it? 

What shall 1 do? 

I know. I’ll wash the plate up, 
and the knife 

and put them away and maybe no one 
will notice, eh? 

So I do that 
and creep creep creep 
back to bed 
into bed 
doze off 
licking my lips 
with a lovely feeling in my belly. 

In the morning I get up, 
have breakfast, 
Mum’s saying, 
‘Have you got your dinner money?’ 
and I say, 
‘And don’t forget to take some chocolate cake with you.’ 
I stopped breathing. 

‘What’s the matter,’ she says, 
‘you normally jump at chocolate cake?’ 

I’m still not breathing, 
and she’s looking at me very closely now. 

She’s looking at me just below my mouth. 
‘What’s that?’ she says. 
‘What’s what?’ I say. 

‘What’s that there?’ 
‘There,’ she says, pointing at my chin. 
‘I don’t know,’ I say. 
‘It looks like chocolate,’ she says. 
‘It’s not chocolate is it?’ 
No answer. 
‘Is it?’ 
‘I don’t know.’ 
She goes to the cupboard 
looks in, up, top, middle, bottom, 
turns back to me. 
‘It’s gone. 
It’s gone. 
You haven’t eaten it, have you?’ 
‘I don’t know.’ 
‘You don’t know. You don’t know if you’ve eaten a whole 
chocolate cake or not? 
When? When did you eat it?’ 

So I told her, 

and she said 
well what could she say? 
‘That’s the last time I give you any cake to take
to school. 
Now go. Get out 
no wait 
not before you’ve washed your dirty sticky face.’ 
I went upstairs 
looked in the mirror 
and there it was, 
just below my mouth, 
a chocolate smudge. 
The give-away. 
Maybe she’ll forget about it by next week.

by Michael Rosen

Talking in Bed by Philip Larkin

Talking In Bed

Talking in bed ought to be easiest,
Lying together there goes back so far,
An emblem of two people being honest.
Yet more and more time passes silently.

Outside, the wind’s incomplete unrest
Builds and disperses clouds in the sky,
And dark towns heap up on the horizon.
None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why

At this unique distance from isolation
It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not untrue and not unkind.


‘Talking in Bed’ by Philip Larkin was the poem that inspired me to study Philip Larkin for my university dissertation. My thesis was to discuss the cathartic effect that Larkin’s poems had on the reader. Admittedly, in hindsight, it perhaps wasn’t the best angle to look at Larkin’s work (although I did get one mark off a first, so it must have had some merit!!) However, I still believe in the essence of my thesis; reading Larkin’s poems makes you feel better. 

Larkin’s poems were predominantly quite depressing. However, he wrote about subjects that would be close to the hearts and minds of most of the readers: love, death, employment, faith, societal changes. People could relate to his poems and these subjects would be as relevant today as they were when Larkin wrote them. Whilst the reader can feel comfort that Larkin shares their worries, Larkin also tends to offer some kind of perspective to these worries. Larkin often refers to the universe as a whole and how in the grand scheme of things, our personal dilemmas and concerns are transcended by a bigger force.

‘Talking in Bed’ is no different. From the title, the first impression is that this is a poem about a very simple, ordinary activity that most couples would undertake on a regular basis. However, the first line is ominous by the use of a single word in the middle of the sentence. “Ought” implies that actually, while the concept of two people having a chat before they go to sleep should be an easy situation, sometimes it isn’t. The ambiguity of “Lying” further reinforces this as it is unclear whether the poetic voice is considering the physical action or the notion of deceipt. “[G]oes back so far” suggests that this couple have been “lying” together for some time, either with, or to, each other.  In their most intimate domain, i.e. their bed, this should represent an openness in their relationship where they can talk about anything without any kind of barriers, but the words will not come to this couple, as “more and more time passes silently.” This could be referring to the time spent on this one occasion that is being described or a longer period of time containing many bedtimes.

Considering the wider environment, as a comparison to the enclosed space of the bedroom, Larkin goes on to describe the storminess of the atmosphere outside, reflective of the atmosphere in the bedroom. Changing the subject to the weather also mirrors the “go-to” topic when people don’t know what to say to each other. Larkin’s oxymoronic phrasing to describe “the wind’s incomplete unrest” highlights the outdoor conflict and the noisiness of the wind and its dramatic effect on the clouds as it “builds and disperses” them, also referring to the emotions between the couple as they “build” up to say something but then change their mind. Perhaps this is a reference to their relationship as a whole, as they realise there are dark, stormy times ahead, and that this is beyond their control. This is further implied as Larkin describes the “dark towns heap[ing] up on the horizon”. The use of the word “heap” enforces the idea that the couple have little control over the outcome of their relationship. The final line of the stanza sounds bitter as the poetic voice states that, in reality, their relationship troubles only matter to the couple in question.  The almost monosyllabic sentence shows no contradiction as the poetic voice seems angry that the problems the couple are experiencing are so unimportant to the world outside the couple’s bedroom.

Continuing into the final stanza, the first line reminds the reader of the distance between this couple despite their close quarters. The poetic voice sounds confounded by the fact that the couple find it “still more difficult” to express themselves with honesty. In the final two lines, the poetic voice admits the reason for this difficulty. The couple do cannot bring themselves to say things that are “true and kind” because they do not feel them but at the same time, they do not want to hurt each other by saying things that are “not untrue and not unkind”. The usual intimacy between the couple has dissipated over time and all that is left are the irritations as they have become more familiar with each other.

The poem ends on a hopeful, albeit rather tenuous, note. The couple must have feelings for each other if they cannot bear to upset each other, as they choose to remain silent rather than upset their partner. The mass of contradictions throughout further reinforce the sense that this is not a finished relationship, rather a relationship that requires nurturing.

‘Talking in Bed’ could be reflective of a lot of couples who have been together for a long time; the more time they spend together, the more things they find that irritate them. However, over time, a decision is made whether these annoyances can be tackled, or at least tolerated. I choose to see a sense of hope in this poem, although i’m not sure that this would be Larkin’s intention!


talking in bed

Phenomenal Woman By Maya Angelou

Any woman who is having a bad day  should read this poem to empower themselves a little. Written by the inspirational Maya Angelou, the persona exudes confidence, but without arrogance. As she describes all the features that she feels make her “phenomenal” there seems to be an undertone that perhaps the persona is also trying to convince herself. The repetition of “That’s me” gives an impression of the persona’s growing pride (or perhaps incredulity) in herself as she considers what exactly makes her so “phenomenal”. Although the persona isn’t a stereotypical “pretty woman”, she is still highly desirable and her self-belief is largely the reason why. It is this contrast that allows the distinctly average woman (much like myself) to appreciate ourselves just that little bit more and that self-confidence can make us average women truly “phenomenal”.

            Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies. 
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size   
But when I start to tell them, 
They think I’m telling lies. 
I say, 
It’s in the reach of my arms, 
The span of my hips,   
The stride of my step,   
The curl of my lips.   
I’m a woman 
Phenomenal woman,   
That’s me. 


I walk into a room 
Just as cool as you please,   
And to a man, 
The fellows stand or 
Fall down on their knees.   
Then they swarm around me, 
A hive of honey bees.   
I say, 
It’s the fire in my eyes,   
And the flash of my teeth,   
The swing in my waist,   
And the joy in my feet.   
I’m a woman 


Phenomenal woman, 
That’s me. 


Men themselves have wondered   
What they see in me. 
They try so much 
But they can’t touch 
My inner mystery. 
When I try to show them,   
They say they still can’t see.   
I say, 
It’s in the arch of my back,   
The sun of my smile, 
The ride of my breasts, 
The grace of my style. 
I’m a woman 
Phenomenal woman, 
That’s me. 


Now you understand 
Just why my head’s not bowed.   
I don’t shout or jump about 
Or have to talk real loud.   
When you see me passing, 
It ought to make you proud. 
I say, 
It’s in the click of my heels,   
The bend of my hair,   
the palm of my hand,   
The need for my care.   
’Cause I’m a woman 
Phenomenal woman, 
That’s me.

Maya Angelou, “Phenomenal Woman” from And Still I Rise. Copyright © 1978 by Maya Angelou. Used by permission of Random House, Inc.

Love is… By Adrian Henri

I absolutely love this poem. Henri takes us on a journey through the seemingly mundane yet all-consuming sentimentalities that generate this abstract emotion. His repetition of “Love is…” reinforces the intangibility of the feeling of being in love. From the small signs of affection such as the holding of hands to the emotional wrenching of separation, Henri demonstrates that despite the culmination of all these  examples of loving actions/reactions, he is still unable to give a definitive answer to what love is…


Love is… By Adrian Henri

Love is… 

Love is feeling cold in the back of vans 

Love is a fanclub with only two fans 

Love is walking holding paintstained hands 

Love is. 

Love is fish and chips on winter nights 

Love is blankets full of strange delights 

Love is when you don’t put out the light 

Love is 

Love is the presents in Christmas shops 

Love is when you’re feeling Top of the Pops 

Love is what happens when the music stops 

Love is 

Love is white panties lying all forlorn 

Love is pink nightdresses still slightly warm 

Love is when you have to leave at dawn 

Love is 

Love is you and love is me 

Love is prison and love is free 

Love’s what’s there when you are away from me 

Love is…

(Courtesy of


World Book Day – a celebration or a mourning?

Tomorrow (Thursday 5th March) is World Book Day and it seems to pass by each year with a whimper rather than the bang it absolutely deserves.

World Book Day was first celebrated in 1995, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s inception was as a result of the commercial success of the Internet in the mid-90’s. Was this the brainchild of a fellow literature fan who feared the impact that the internet may have on the concept of books and reading?

When my (now almost 15-year-old) daughter was in primary school in the mid-noughties, her school went all out for World Book Day. The kids dressed up, the teachers dressed up. The entire day was devoted to all things literary. Sure, there were the kids who wore their Disney princess outfits and there were Captain Jack Sparrow outfits as far as the eye could see but a lot of these characters originated from books, I rationalised. Some parents complained that little Alice had dragged them to Disney Store for a top of the range Belle outfit and that little Jack didn’t even read books. Signs of the times, in retrospect.

As the years passed the celebrations dwindled to a passing mention in the newsletter and by the time my other (now 8-year-old) daughter started school, it was only mentioned in passing that they would not be celebrating World Book Day as there was a non-uniform day at the end of the week instead. What a sad state of affairs!

All change again this year! My 8-year-old and my 3-year-old have brought letters home from school and nursery to say they can bring their book in to school and send in a photo (by email, of course!) of said children reading their books in an obscure place around the home.

This instigated a discussion amongst friends about the various ways in which schools are celebrating World Book Day and it seems that some schools are still making a day of it, dressing up, a day positively overflowing with literary activities. Yet some schools are barely acknowledging it. As I lamented this affront to the world of literature, a friend replied “yeah, but you’re a book lover”. I absolutely and wholeheartedly agree and perhaps I have taken this a bit too seriously, but surely, in schools of all places, World Book Day should be an opportunity in this increasingly technological age to actively encourage children to cherish literature and all that it can offer.

I’m not suggesting for one moment that reading is not encouraged in our schools. After all, the ability to read is taught in our schools (to varying degrees of success if you believe the tabloids) and, one would hope, will be further encouraged at home. However as tablets and video games become such a massive part of our culture, the lowly book seems to be the consolation prize for when the batteries run out. Whilst I encourage my girls to read as much as possible, when they can be easily visually entertained by their devices, books just seem too much like hard work to them. Imagination? What’s that?

I understand the appeal of technological products. My iPhone is never far away from me. I also have a Kindle and the Kindle app on my phone. I don’t share the view of many other literature advocates that actual, honest-to-goodness, books are the only way to read. Reading is reading, whichever medium you use, in my humble opinion. However, I still appreciate the value of reading a good book. Immersing yourself in a fantasy world for a little while as you take a break from the trials and tribulations of everyday life is an amazing tonic.

I desperately want my children to enjoy reading and to indulge in a good book as often as possible, and they do, to a large extent (although how much of that is as a result of my thrusting a book into their face at the earliest opportunity, I couldn’t say). I fear that books may eventually disappear into the ether and the hobby that I have enjoyed since I was knee-high to a grasshopper will be frowned upon. “Reading? Why on earth would you do that? Just watch the film! Save yourself all that hard work!”

I may be exaggerating the situation somewhat but in a time when we see so many remakes of films and regurgitated ideas for drama, I wonder if the up and coming film-makers and screenwriters will have the imaginations to come up with anything  new in years to come. Books feed the imagination and the fact that a day has been earmarked across the globe for the celebration of literature, this day should warrant an important calendar note. I’m sure there’s an app for that!